


can't breathe with these words in my mouth

by robokittens



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (like very light please don't get too excited), Clothed Sex, Coming Untouched, Drunk Sex, First Kiss, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, man whatever i'm such a sap for these kids let's not even lie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:36:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3392021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens/pseuds/robokittens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are reasons he doesn't usually come down for the parties: people, mostly, and alcohol. But there's a reason he has, this time, and that reason made four dozen cookies earlier and is currently pressed up against his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	can't breathe with these words in my mouth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reserve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve/gifts).



> happy birthday [reserve](http://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve/)!! this probably doesn't contain as much misery as you would like, but i had to take a break from the sads tbqh. love you!!!
> 
> worlds of thanks to [ouroboros](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ouroboros/) for the beta! xo

"I can't believe they got you to do shots!" Bittle's up on his toes to shout in Jack's ear, and it's still hard to hear him over the music. 

He's not sure he's loud enough to be audible when he corrects, "Sho _t_ ," emphasis on the singular, but at this point it's probably a technicality anyway. He's on his second beer of the night — first and a halfth, really; he's pretty sure the first one got lost somewhere between wall-hugging and tequila — which is already more than he usually drinks.

He hadn't said no when Holster slapped the bottle into his hand, when Shitty slapped him on the back, but he'd retreated back to the wall. There are reasons he doesn't usually come down for the parties: people, mostly, and alcohol. But there's a reason he has, this time, and that reason made four dozen cookies earlier and is currently pressed up against his side.

("Cookies?" he'd asked, surprised, and Bittle had pulled a face at him. "I _can_ bake things other than pie, you know. Besides, you've seen what kind of heathens come to these things; they won't be able to appreciate my finer works.")

"I think I'm done for the night," he says, and then again, louder, when Bittle cups a hand around his ear, mouths _What?_

Their eyes lock, and Jack feels the blood rising in his cheeks. 

"Me too," Bittle shouts. He puts his bottle on a stray end table and wraps that hand, casual as anything, around Jack's wrist. His hand is cold, condensation-damp, and Jack shivers. Bittle tugs him toward the stairs.

There aren't that many steps separating the first and second floors of the Haus — certainly not enough to keep people stumbling up them in search of a place to piss (or worse) — but somehow even just halfway up the flight of stairs things go _quiet_.

It's strange looking _up_ at Bittle — for all they chirp him for it he's not actually all _that_ short, but … trailing a step behind, Bittle's hand still around his wrist and the tequila starting to buzz in his brain, Jack feels small in a way he hasn't in a long time.

It's not a bad feeling. He feels small sometimes, like … like he'll never be good enough, like he'll never measure up to Bad Bob or to the expectations set for him or even to the him of a few years ago, bursting with potential. This … this isn't that. This is small in a different way, safe somehow. Like the circle of Bittle's slim fingers, delicate despite the callouses, covers him completely.

They pause at the top of the steps. It sounds stupid to say that Bittle looks ... that the light through the window washes over him, makes him glow, but for just a moment it seems true. 

"Jack?"

Bittle's voice breaks through, and Jack can't help the flare of embarrassment at being caught staring. From the way Bittle's fingers tighten on his wrist, though, and from the look in his eyes, it doesn't seem like he minds. 

"Were you ... I just," Bittle says, laughs that tiny self-deprecating laugh the team hasn't been able to shake from him despite their best efforts, and Jack realizes that now that they're on equal footing he's taller again. That means he can take a step forward, duck down and brush his lips, just briefly, against Bittle's.

" _Yeah_ ," Bittle sighs, and when Jack pulls back his eyes have slipped closed. His fingers peel away from Jack's wrist, and Jack can't help the quiet, disappointed noise that escapes at the loss of contact. Bittle's eyes snap back open, something almost hungry in them. 

Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's that he's finally letting himself feel this, but all of a sudden he needs to be as close to Bittle as possible, as close as he can get. He leads with his hips out of instinct as he moves forward, pressing Bittle against the wall and himself against Bittle. It's fast enough that he can _feel_ the shocked exhale of air from Bittle's lungs, the shudder of his whole body as it hits the wall.

… It's faster than he'd meant to move, maybe.

Bittle's eyes are wide, huge, impossibly big with reflected moonlight. His lips part, just barely, letting out shaky breaths, and Jack wants — wants — 

"I'm glad you didn't faint," he says.

Bittle blinks, Jack's world going dark and then bright again, and then his shoulders start shaking, his smile as bright as his eyes.

"Fuck you," he says, the laughter bubbling up through his voice, and he leans in — 

Moves in and ducks under Jack's arm, spinning around as gracefully on the scarred and knotted floor as he would on the ice, pulling Jack with him with the force of momentum.

"C'mon," he says, voice gentle, "Let's get you to bed."

"Oh," Jack says. He takes a step down the hall, toward his room (toward Bittle's room) and pauses, sucks in a breath between his teeth. "I thought —"

Bittle laughs again. "I didn't say _alone_."

"Your place or mine?" Jack doesn't mean for it to be funny — didn't mean to say it, really — but his heart seizes when Bittle grins up at him, and Jack'd tell all the bad jokes in the world if he would just keep —

Bittle raises an eyebrow. "When was the last time you washed your sheets?" He grabs Jack's hand, and their fingers don't quite interlock but it doesn't matter for the metre and a half down the hallway, through the door to Bittle's room. 

It hasn't been _that_ long since he washed his sheets — a month on the outside. Maybe two. He's about to protest when suddenly he's got his back against the door, and somehow, improbably, Bittle has him crowded up against it. His hands are pressed to the wood on either side of Jack's head, and he must be on his toes but even still they're not quite of a height; he can feel Bittle's short, sharp breaths against his chin. He can feel that Bittle — can feel that he's hard, pressed up against him like this.

Their eyes meet, and Jack wonders if he looks shocked as he feels. 

For a moment they just breathe together, eyes locked, the smell of cheap beer somehow not unappealing on Bittle's breath.

And then, unable to stop himself, Jack says, "Good physicality. You should bring that on the ice."

Bittle rocks back on his heels and covers his eyes with his hand, laughing again. "Oh, goodness. You're too much, Jack Zimmermann, you know that?"

"I meant it," Jack protests, but he can feel the smile slip onto his face. "It was — you were good. You're good."

"Oh goodness," Bittle repeats, and grabs Jack's wrist again as he takes a step backward. "Come to bed?"

It's a genuine question, Jack can tell. Or … no, an invitation. "Please," he says, and Bittle's eyes open up moonlight-bright. 

The room isn't that wide, but it feels like it takes ages to cross. Bittle's bed is neatly made, and he smoothes the covers down before he pushes Jack to sit on the edge of it. "Hang on," he says; he grabs the plush bunny that's sitting on his pillow and puts it on his desk, face down. Jack toes off his running shoes.

Bittle takes off his own shoes, shrugs off his hoodie and drapes it over the back of his desk chair. He turns back to face Jack again, uncertainty flashing in his eyes for a moment, and then he sits down next to him. He puts a hand on Jack's knee.

"Are you su—"

Jack cuts him off. "Yes. Yes. I'm sure."

"Have you ever—"

"Bittle." He doesn't mean to use his captain voice, but it works; Bittle goes completely still. "I'm sure. I swear." 

That seems to work, which is good. That's a line of questioning that Jack really doesn't want to go down right now. He puts his own hand over Bittle's, which seems to solve it. "Okay," Bittle says. "Good. I'm sure, too."

And then they're kissing, _finally_. It's soft at first, tentative, but then Bittle's fingers tighten on Jack's knee and Jack's fingers are on Bittle's shoulder, his neck, winding through his hair, and then Jack's got his back against the wall and a lap full of Bittle. Jack doesn't mind the stale-beer taste of their kisses (and he probably tastes like bottom shelf tequila, which can't be too great either), not when Bittle's got his thumbs dug into Jack's collarbones, kissing Jack so hard his head thumps against the wall.

Bittle gives a full-body shiver when Jack gets both hands on his ass and pulls him in tighter. He moans into Jack's mouth. Bittle's fingers squeeze Jack's shoulders, and it feels like an anchor somehow, like he's floating, like he'd float away if Bittle weren't holding on to him.

One of his hands wraps around Bittle's hip; the other runs along the top of Bittle's jeans, the tip of his thumb sneaking up under the fabric of Bittle's t-shirt and rubbing across the skin there. That's all it takes for Bittle to squirm in Jack's lap, and pull his t-shirt up over his head.

He's seen Bittle shirtless dozens of times, and it seems … he feels like it should be something special, now, like this, but no: it's just Bittle, shirtless. He runs his fingers down Bittle's back, down the line of his spine and coming to rest in the hollow at the small of his back. The way Bittle arches his back, though, and the way his eyes slip shut … that's something different.

Jack pulls Bittle in again and kisses him, messy and open-mouthed, his hands bracketing his hips and holding him close. Bittle's arms loop around his neck. 

"Oh, _Jack_ ," Bittle murmurs against Jack's lips. Jack can feel the heat of his breath. It's — more arousing than it should be, maybe; he hasn't felt this turned on in a long time. He makes a noise that's meant to be affirmative but ends up sort of high pitched and needy, but he can't bring himself to be embarrassed. 

He just wants … he's not sure what he wants, but he wants Bittle to do it to him.

One of his hands moves down to Bittle's thigh, slides back up again and drags across the front of Bittle's jeans. He moans, and Jack moves his hand again, rubs the heel of it against the outline of Bittle's dick. 

"Jack," Bittle says again, " _Jack_." His head falls forward onto Jack's shoulder. 

Jack curls his hand around the bulge in Bittle's jeans and leaves it there, letting Bittle rut up against him. The angle is horrible for his wrist and it starts aching almost right away, but he barely feels it. He thinks about getting his hand around Bittle's dick for real, about jacking him off, about if maybe Bittle sat up, got on his knees and ran the head of his dick across Jack's kiss-swollen lips. About sucking him off. His hips jerk with the thought.

The movement seems to snap Bittle out of it, and he pulls away abruptly. Jack stops moving, stops breathing. His hands fall to the bedspread.

"Bittle?" he says, and then, tentatively, "Eric?"

Bittle's eyes roll up toward the ceiling — toward the heavens, more likely, and then he drops his head back to Jack's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he says into Jack's neck. "I want — I just don't think — You're drunk. I'm drunk. We shouldn't …" He pauses, presses his lips to Jack's neck in the ghost of a kiss. "Shouldn't go any further."

"But I want to," Jack says plaintively. He sounds pathetic, he knows, desperate, but he doesn't care.

"Then you'll want to in the morning." Bittle's still talking into Jack's skin, and Jack can feel the deep, shaky breaths he's taking. "If … if you want to be here in the morning. You can stay if you want. Please … please stay."

It's a ridiculous plea, with Jack's own room just across the hall, but Jack's whole body aches at the thought of being even that far away. He puts a hand on Bittle's shoulder and pushes him back just far enough to be able to meet his eyes. He leans in to brush a kiss across Bittle's lips, then moves back again.

"Can I — I want to see you. Can I just ..." Jack's not sure what he's asking for, but Bittle might know, by the way buries his head in his hands and laughs.

"Oh, Lord. I'm just sober enough to know this is a bad idea," Bittle says. He shimmies out of his jeans and kicks them off the bed — Jack is amazed he's kept them on so long; he'd probably have died if he'd been wearing anything more restrictive than sweatpants — and twists around to plant a soft kiss on Jack's mouth.

"Wait," Jack says. "Do you — do you not want —"

Bittle laughs. He rearranges them on the bed, moves Jack against the pillows and pushes his legs apart, settling between them and pressing his back up against Jack's chest. "Oh, I do," he says, and drops his head back onto Jack's shoulder. "I shouldn't, but I certainly do."

Bittle cranes his neck to lean up into it when Jack kisses him, the angle awkward but no less satisfying for that. Jack's beginning to realize there are all sorts of ways he could kiss Bittle, that there are all sorts of ways he could have been kissing him, that he could kiss him in the future maybe — 

"What?" he says dumbly.

Bittle scrunches his nose up, and Jack kisses that, too. Bittle bites his lip, but there's no disguising the fact that he wants to laugh, and Jack has to kiss his lips again. It's a moment before Bittle repeats himself. "I _said_ , you can look if you promise not to touch."

Jack doesn't say anything, isn't sure what to say. He's not sure what that means.

Bittle shifts inside the vee of Jack's legs, tucking himself more firmly against Jack's crotch. "It's just," he drawls, completely failing to not look pleased at Jack's sharp intake of breath, at the twitch of Jack's dick he can no doubt feel against the small of his back, "my mother would be _so_ disappointed if she heard I put out on the first date."

He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his boxer-briefs, raises his hips just slightly, and then pauses. "Promise, Jack?"

"I promise," Jack says, breathless, unable to think beyond the press of Bittle against him, beyond the way he's sliding his underwear down over his thighs and the way his dick springs free, bouncing against his abs in a way that would be comical if it weren't ridiculously, impossibly _hot_. 

"'Kay," Bittle says, and when he wraps a hand around himself Jack's brain short-circuits. He's not sure what to expect — Bittle talking dirty, telling Jack what he's thinking as he drags his hand slowly up and down his dick, or — what if Bittle expects _him_ to … to talk dirty? But Bittle just leans his head back onto Jack's shoulder and moans softly. 

Jack's surprised to find himself watching Bittle's throat more than his dick, the bob of his adam's apple, the hitch of his breath when he tightens his grip. His fingers flex against the bedsheets. 

He's turned on — he's so, so turned on right now, but it's background noise; his dick doesn't even register until Bittle moves, squirms against him in a way that's almost painful. He groans. Bittle stops moving.

"Jack?" Bittle's voice is shaky, and Jack's sure his own is no better when he grits out a, " _Yeah_."

Bittle's hand slides up his dick once more before he stops, pulls off himself with visible effort. "When I said you couldn't touch," he says, and stops. His accent's out in full force, voice slower than Jack's ever heard it when he's not fresh off the plane from Georgia; he's all fluttery eyelashes and drawn-out vowels. He moves his hand (the one that had been on his thigh, not the one that had been on his dick, and Jack is pretty sure he'd be disappointed about that if he could manage to think straight) to grab on to Jack's wrist.

Jack groans again, and Bittle brings Jack's wrist to his lips, kisses the heel of his hand right above where his fingers meet. "You like that?" he asks quietly. "You like when I — hold onto you?"

" _Bitty_ ," Jack whispers, and Bittle's whole body shivers. 

"Lord above, you are a temptation."

There's a part of Jack that's always, always thinking about hockey, even when the rest of him can't manage to think at all, and that part of him is amazed with the speed and strength with which Bittle flips them over. The rest of him, though: the rest of him is stunned and silent. Bittle's crouched over him, his knees bracketing Jack's thighs. His one hand is still gripping Jack's wrist, pinning it to the bed over his head; logically he must have let go, to flip them, but Jack doesn't remember that sense of loss, just the fuzzy feeling of Bittle _holding_ him. 

Bittle's head is pressed to his collarbone, close enough that Jack can hear his soft whimpers. He can feel Bittle's breath through his t-shirt, can feel the movement of Bittle's hand against his stomach, jerking himself off harder, faster. 

Jack's other hand is twisted in the sheets; he wants to touch Bittle, even if just to wipe the hair off his forehead, but he holds still. Bittle's moving enough for both of them; Jack can feel every minute jerk of his hips, every twitch of his shoulders. He can feel the desperate press of Bittle's forehead into his chest, and he can feel the low, low groan Bittle lets out as he comes, can _feel_ the warmth of it through his shirt.

He can feel the slow sink of Bittle's body down on top of his, Bittle's hot breath against his neck, the way his fingers loosen their grip on Jack's wrist but don't let go.

It's the weight of Bittle on top of him that does it; he hadn't even realized how close he was until Bittle went limp against him. Then he can feel his dick pulse once, twice, and Bittle's propping himself up on one shaky arm to look at him wide-eyed. " _Jack_ ," he says, incredulous.

"I … liked watching you," Jack admits. His voice sounds hoarse. He's not sure why.

" _Jack_ ," Bittle says again, softer, and lets his head rest on Jack's chest.

Jack's free hand moves, finally; he wraps his arm around Bittle's waist, holding him close. Bittle lets go of Jack's wrist to press their palms together, laces his fingers through Jack's.

They lay there for a few minutes, silent, breathing, before Bittle raises his head to kiss the underside of Jack's jaw. He lets go of Jack's hand peels himself off his chest, and Jack's eyes open in time to see Bittle's go comically wide.

"Oh, Jack," he says, "Your _shirt_ , I'm so sorry, I didn't think!"

Jack looks down at the streak of come crossing the Red Wings logo on his chest, barely visible against the red on white. "I … _really_ don't care about this shirt," he says, still a little dazed. 

"I would hope not," Bittle says primly, as if he's suddenly realized just what he's defaced, and Jack laughs.

He sits up just enough that he can take his shirt off, then hesitates with his fingers twisted in the hem. "Can I …" 

"Of course!" Bittle sits back on his heels, watching as Jack pulls the offending t-shirt over his head. "Do you …" He flushes, now after all that, and Jack grins at him. "Would you like to stay the night, or …?"

Jack looks over toward the door, and then back at Bittle, eyes roaming across his naked frame, the blush spreading down his neck. "If I can," he says.

"I cuddle," Bittle warns. 

Jack laughs, and yawns halfway through it. "I think I can deal with that." His voice has gone sleepy with the rest of him. 

Bittle doesn't put any clothes back on, just maneuvers them both under the covers and drapes himself back over Jack's chest. He seems perfectly comfortable, and Jack wonders for a moment if Bittle always sleeps naked. His dick twitches slightly at the thought, and Bittle laughs sleepily into Jack's chest.

"In the morning," he says.

Jack wraps his arm back around Bittle and presses a kiss to the crown of his head. "In the morning," he echoes, a promise, and drifts to sleep.

 

_ _

postscript: 

Jack comes home from his Monday classes to find Bittle leaning delicately over the back of the green couch, where Shitty lounges in a pair of terrycloth shorts more alarmingly degraded than the couch itself. 

"Would you say that ejaculating on something is more celebratory, or insulting?" Bittle asks, sounding entirely concerned, and Jack is glad they haven't seen him yet; that means he doesn't have to try and smother the grin on his face, and that his laugh will probably go unnoticed under Shitty's surprised yelp as he falls off the couch.

Yeah, Bitty's good. Jack likes him.

**Author's Note:**

> title from bright eyes, "contrast and compare" from the au conor oberst wrote a song with a happy ending


End file.
